


stars that clear have been dead for years

by xylodemon



Series: deancas codas: season fifteen [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Destiel is canon, Episode Tag, Grief/Mourning, M/M, i can't believe i get to tag that after all these years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:28:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27497971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: "I love you."There's nothing,nothing, Dean Winchester can say to that.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: deancas codas: season fifteen [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1514186
Comments: 109
Kudos: 1386
Collections: SPN Finale "Destiel is CANON" Collection, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	stars that clear have been dead for years

**Author's Note:**

> HI HELLO DESTIEL IS CANON. 
> 
> Spoilers for 15x18. Warnings for canon-typical alcohol use. 
> 
> Rebloggable on [Tumblr](https://xylodemon.tumblr.com/post/634443544045731840/deancas-fic-stars-that-clear-have-been-dead-for)

What Cas is saying doesn't really register—Dean knows what he is, how little he's worth. It's that Cas is digging up these graves _now_ , with Chuck out there doing fuck-knows-what and Billie breathing down their necks. It's the rasp in Cas' voice, the flush rising in his cheeks. Everything inside Dean spins and spins until—

"You changed me, Dean."

—and a cold certainty skids to a halt in his gut.

"Why does this sound like a goodbye?"

"Because it is."

Cas pauses then, and it feels like a finger on the trigger.

"I love you."

There's nothing, _nothing_ , Dean Winchester can say to that.

+

For all that Dean's a fighter, he knows there's a weird kind of relief that comes with giving up, with letting the chips fall and not scrambling to catch them before they hit the ground.

When Cas walked out of the bunker that day—said, "I think it's time for me to move on," with a cold, dead look on his face—Dean had been angry, and he'd been hurt, but somewhere underneath that, he'd also been relieved. He'd always known Cas would get tired of his shit and leave. Then it finally happened, and Dean let out a breath he'd been holding for over a decade.

And for weeks, he told himself it was better that way. He told himself that Cas had been screwing up their plans, that it was Cas' fault Mary died, that it didn't matter because he'd never needed anyone but Sam anyway. 

But the truth was, _the truth is_ : outside losing Sam, losing Cas has always been his biggest fear.

+

He doesn't move.

His legs go numb, and a dull ache takes root at the base of his spine, but he stays where Cas threw him—where Cas _saved_ him.

Cas always saved him. He'd been destined to that first time, but— _but_. In every other universe, Cas had kept following Heaven after that. But in this one— _this one_ —he'd rebelled. He'd stuck around. He'd grown into a friend, and then a brother, and then something else, something more—something Dean had always been to afraid of even thinking about too long.

He rubs his wet eyes, looks at Cas' blood smeared on the door. He looks at where Cas was standing when the Empty came for him, where he was standing when he said… _that_.

" _You are the most caring man on earth. You are the most selfless, loving human being I will ever know._ "

"Fuck."

" _Because you cared, I cared. I cared about you. I cared about Sam, I cared about Jack. I cared about the whole world, because of you._ "

Dean's phone buzzes where he dropped it on the floor.

+

He almost told Cas once, in Purgatory. Almost. 

He'd been worn down to the bone that day, exhausted by his mom's death, Jack's soul, Cas being gone, Chuck. Going to Purgatory on a goose chase had chipped away the last of his defenses. Cas had disappeared, and Dean had prayed, and blurting it all out had felt like a bloodletting, like something festering inside him had finally welled up to face the sunlight.

It had felt _possible_. Like maybe in this other, unreal place, he could finally square up with his heart. But before he could say it, Cas told him he didn't have to, that he'd already "heard."

" _Because the one thing I want—it's something I know I can't have._ "

Almost.

Almost.

Horseshoes and hand grenades. 

+

At some point, he gets up so he can hobble into the bathroom and take a piss. He slaps some water on his face without looking at himself in the mirror. He stands there for a few minutes, hunched over the sink, breathing in the smell of stale water as his hands shake against the wet porcelain.

" _I love you._ "

"You shouldn't've," Dean mutters. "I wasn't fucking worth it."

+

Dean ends up back on the floor of the panic room, his head tipped back against the bricks and a bottle of Jack waiting in his lap. Sam finds him when he's three shots in. He's rubbing his swollen eyes, struggling to breathe through the ache in his chest. 

Sam says, "Dean," before pausing in the doorway to blink down at the cracked remains of Dean's phone. Dean smashed it against the wall the seventh or eighth time Sam called. "You—are you bleeding?"

Dean touches the handprint Cas left on his shoulder. It's stiff now, the blood dry. "It's not mine."

"Where's Cas?"

"He—fuck." Dean's throat closes up; his eyes start to sting. "He's gone."

"What?"

"Billie—"

"Billie?"

"She was gunning for us. Had us trapped. Cas called up the Empty, and—"

"He—the _Empty_?

"Yeah. He—he, uh." Dean swallows hard—once, twice. His last shot is churning around in his gut. "Fuck."

Sam says, "Hey, hey," and walks over to crouch at Dean's side. "Start from the beginning."

Dean sucks in a couple of shaky breaths. Then: "He made a deal with it, that first time Jack died. His life for Jack's, but it wouldn't come for him 'til he—'til he was ready. We were sitting ducks in here. Billie was pounding on the door. So he—" Dean swallows again and scrubs his hand through his hair. "He cashed in to save me. The Empty showed up and took them both."

"Wow," Sam says quietly. "That's—"

"Yeah."

Sam says, "Hey," again and squeezes Dean's shoulder. His knees pop as he stands. "We'll get him back."

" _The price was my life. When I experienced a moment of true happiness, the Empty would be summoned, and it would take me forever._ "

Dean just lifts the bottle to his mouth.

+

Eventually, Sam hustles Dean into the kitchen and forces two cups of coffee down his throat. They burn his tongue and taste like a good spoonful of grounds escaped the filter. They don't really sober him up, just float on top of the whiskey in a way that makes him feel like he's going to puke.

"Did you hear me?" Sam asks.

Dean mutters, "Yeah," and leans his elbows on the table. "You said everyone's gone."

"As far as we can tell."

The fridge kicks on with a hum as Dean asks, "Where's Jack?"

"In the shower. He thought it might help him, uh." Sam grimaces a little. "He—he, um—"

"Just spit it out."

Sam says, "Okay," and sips his coffee. Then: "On our way back, he started sensing something. Something big."

"Like _Chuck_ big?"

"Not that big. But big."

"Great," Dean mutters. The last thing they need is another juiced up player on the board. "Did he get a bead on it?"

"Not exactly. Just that it was to the west of us."

Dean sighs and rubs his hand over his face. The skin around his eyes feels like sandpaper. "So, what? We're just gonna chase his spidey-senses 'til we bump into it?"

"We might be able to narrow it down. There's a spell in the Book of the Damned that traces cosmic disturbances on earth."

"And you think you can get something like that off the ground?"

Sam says, "It's not too heavy," then grimaces again and hedges, "Well, comparatively. We'll need to find a hoodoo shop, though. It needs more cardoon and labradorite that we’ve got."

"A hoodoo shop? When everyone's gone?"

"Seriously?" Sam asks, snorting. " _Now_ you're feeling tender about some B-and-E?"

"Whatever," Dean replies. He rubs his eyes again. "When are we heading out?"

Sam hands him another cup of coffee. "As soon as you sober up."

+

They're the only thing moving on US 36. The highway is dotted with cars that lost control after their drivers got zapped; most either ran into the ditch passing as a shoulder or coasted into a field. At the junction with Main Street in Smith Center, a van and two pickups are starfished together in front of the Cenex. Smith Center itself is a ghost town—bikes on the side of the road, hoses spraying at the car wash, shopping bags waiting where they fell in the parking lot of Heartland Foods.

In Oberlin, Jack tells Dean to head north. In McCook, he points Dean west again. US 83, US 34, US 6 until it becomes Highway 14.

Silence. There's a Zepp cassette in the tape deck, but Dean can't bring himself to listen to it.

+

Whatever cosmic wavelength Jack's tapping into craps out as they roll into Fort Collins. It's as empty as everywhere else they've been in the last seven hours; they pass a gas station with cars still at the pumps, a furniture store with its front door open and its lights still on, a library with books and papers scattered across its front steps.

They need to regroup, so they help themselves to a couple of rooms at a mauve, art deco dump called the Chateau Charmont. Dean takes a single for himself, and he gives Sam the Impala's keys so he can hit up the hoodoo shop on College Avenue. 

The room is standard: balding carpet, faded wallpaper, and ugly bedspread hiding a lumpy bed. The plumbing rattles behind the walls as Dean puts a six-pack in the fridge—Jack taking another shower.

The TV is hit or miss. The local stations are all dark, no news or late-night talk shows, but TV Land and TNT still have some reruns in their queue. Dean puts on a _M*A*S*H_ episode with the volume nearly at zero. He opens the bag of Cheetos he lifted from a convenience store in Sterling but doesn't eat them. He paces. Sits. Paces. Sits.

Four beers and two airplane bottles of Glenlivet later, he only feels kind of stupid when he rubs his face and whispers, "Cas," at the water-stained ceiling.

The plumbing rattles again. The room's ancient window unit clanks and whirrs. 

Dean says, "Cas," again and sucks in a breath. "I don't know if you can hear me, but I—I guess I gotta try. I didn't—I didn't want—" His throat starts closing up; he squeezes his hands into fists as he waits for it to pass. "You're gone, and I—I don't know what I'm gonna do. I'm just— _fuck_."

He can't do this. Not without another drink. As he gets up and walks to the minibar, the air shifts.

He hears a heavy, rustling sound—a sound he hasn't heard in _years_.

+

The trenchcoat suits him. It's blacker than ink, just like his shirt and tie and slacks. His scythe is different than Billie's—a longer shaft, a deeper curve to the blade. The air around him seems to hum, a buzz Dean can feel underneath his ribs. 

"Cas?" he whispers.

"Yes."

"How?"

"Cosmic consequences," Cas replies. His tone's so dry Dean can't tell if he's joking or not. "Billie purged her ranks in the last few months. She eliminated anyone who opposed her movements against Chuck. With so few reapers left, there was little chance of one conveniently dying in time to fill her shoes." Pausing, he looks down at himself. "Apparently, I was the next best thing."

"And the Empty?"

"The Angel of Death is woven into the very fabric of the universe. That outweighs the Empty's petty desire to make me miserable."

"And you—you're okay with this?"

"It's an adjustment. But—" Cas mouth curves slightly. "It's preferable to the alternative."

Dean's knees start to wobble. It's been a long couple of days, and he's mostly been drinking his meals for the last eighteen hours. He downs the Glenlivet he grabbed as Cas showed up and sits on the edge of the bed.

He clears his throat before asking, "How long?"

"Immediately. One moment I was in the bunker, the next I was in Billie's— _my_ library."

Dean's throat is closing up again. He can't—fuck. "And you weren't gonna tell me?"

Cas studies him for a moment, then turns and props his scythe against the wall. Then—in the blink of an eye—he's standing in front of Dean, so close that his new coat brushes Dean's knees.

He says, "Dean, I meant everything I said to you in those last moments. You're a good man. Knowing you has changed me in ways I scarcely comprehend. And I do love you." He skims two fingers down the line of Dean's jaw. "But I said it because it was the only thing that would trigger my deal. I hate that I had to burden you with it to save you."

"Burden?" Dean snaps. His eyes are stinging. _Fuck_. "Is that what you think?"

"I'm well aware that it's nothing you wanted to hear."

Dean forces himself meet Cas' eyes. "You sure about that?"

Cas makes a noise in his throat, and the lights in the bathroom shatter. The look on his face is such a horrible mix of anguish and hope that Dean feels it in his gut.

He says, "Dean," in a soft, rough voice. "You never said anything."

"When was I gonna?" Dean asks. He needs another drink, but he's not sure his knees will get him there. "When you were oozing leviathan goo everywhere? When I was outta my mind with the Mark of Cain? When Lucifer was riding around in your meatsuit? And then you _died_." He lets out a wet, ugly laugh. "You died, and I—I wasn't okay. I nearly lost it. It got so bad Sam started hiding my guns."

"Dean—"

"No. Listen to me. I—uh. I—"

"Dean," Cas murmurs. He touches Dean's jaw again. "You don't have to say it."

"I want to say it," Dean insists. "You fucking deserve to hear it." He has to swallow a few times before he can do it; all the scotch he drank is rising in his throat. "I love you. I have for years. I just—"

Cas cuts him off by catching his arm and coaxing him to his feet. He asks, "What do you want?"

"I—" Dean closes his eyes. His heart is beating in his throat. "You."

"Okay."

Dean blinks at him. They're nearly nose to nose—almost close enough for a kiss. He says, "Okay? Just like that?"

Huffing, Cas says, "You've always been good at making things more difficult than they need to be." Then he leans in and kisses him.

It's soft at first, careful, like maybe Cas is afraid of his new power. His coat bunches between them, and his hand flutters at the side of Dean's neck. He tastes otherworldly—something too light and bright to be human. Dean can't get enough of it. He tugs Cas closer, kisses him until neither of them can breathe.

When they finally pull apart, he plucks at Cas' lapel and asks, "What about this? You've got a job now."

Cas shrugs. "Day to day reaping has never been Death's purview. Death keeps the books. Intervenes when endings get altered. Makes corrections when things fall out of balance."

"But you're short on staff now, yeah?"

"Once Chuck is dealt with, I can make more reapers. I might also be able to help replenish Heaven so it can… keep its lights on."

"What about Chuck?" Dean asks. "Can you help?"

After a pause, Cas says, "Some. There are rules regarding how much I can intervene—rules Billie nearly bent to the breaking point. But I'll be there. And if you manage to wound him seriously enough, I can step in."

"And after?" Dean asks, even though he's afraid of the answer. Cas has always been too big for him, too bright. And now—fuck. "You sure this is what you want?"

"Yes, Dean."

"It won't be easy."

Cas says, "Nothing with you ever is," and kisses the corner of his mouth. "But we're both incredibly stubborn. I believe we can work it out."


End file.
